Footsteps
by Shenzuul
Summary: Footsteps approach Soul and Maka's hiding place. Unable to run, they wait for discovery, when Maka has an idea. This wasn't how they expected it to be. Oneshot.


Footsteps.

Footsteps on cobblestone, echoing on stone walls that line narrow streets. Quick, sharp footsteps—running footsteps. Many, many footsteps. Two sets, growing clearer. Louder. Approaching.

Two people burst around a corner, running, sweating, gasping for breath. The one in the lead, a white-haired young man with crimson eyes, tightly grips the wrist of the second, a young woman with twin dirty blond ponytails. Crimson Eyes scans the area frantically. Ponytails' steps falter. The ragged edge to her breathing is not merely the result of hard running and adrenaline.

Crimson Eyes spots a tiny alley and ducks into it. "Maka, this way!" he urges, tugging Ponytails' arm. Hidden in the alleyway, the two stop and press themselves side by side against the wall. The pounding footsteps do not cease.

"Soul," whispers Ponytails, "they're coming!"

"Hush, Maka," Soul cautions. The two struggle to control their heavy breathing, listening to the footsteps. The shadows hide them incompletely; the harsh orange light of a streetlamp just beyond the mouth of the alley partially illuminates and distorts colors, making Soul's hair glow gold and the scarlet splashes on the companions' clothes look black.

The footsteps slow, nearby. "Where are they?" demands a faceless voice, ice-cold and cruel.

"They can't be far," hisses a second voice in reply. "The weapon's wounds were shallow, but the meister's…" A harsh reptilian noise, screaming of bloodlust, punctuates the words. "Separate! Find them!"

"What did they look like?" growls a third voice, deep and threatening.

"The boy has white hair and wears a headband," snaps the reptilian voice. "The girl had ponytails. Both are bleeding visibly. It should be obvious enough. Now, you, come with me. You, go down that alley."

"Yes, sir," chorus the other two. Ice Voice sounds resentful of Reptile's leadership. Deep Voice sounds hungry for the chase, hungry for killing. Two pairs of sharp footsteps resume, running further and further away. A third pair of footsteps, heavy and leisurely, draw closer and closer, accompanied by rumbling breathing.

Soul's and Maka's lungs constrict with fear. In moments, they will be spotted. Their bleeding wounds will give them away, and they will die. Suddenly, Maka grabs Soul's jacket sleeve and tugs him away from the alley wall. "Soul," she whispers urgently. Soul looks down into her green eyes, thinking she has a plan. He isn't prepared when she throws herself at him, crushing his wounded chest in a desperate embrace.

"Maka, what—" Soul demands in a low voice. Maka silences him by leaning forward and pressing her lips against his. He recoils, stunned, but with one iron-strong arm around his back, Maka has him trapped. Maka's other hand reaches up, tugging off the headband that does nothing to tame Soul's unruly hair before clamping over the sluggishly bleeding wound on the back of his head. Suddenly, Soul understands. As he leans in to return Maka's fierce kiss, he wraps his hands around her and deftly removes the ribbons that hold her hair in ponytails. One hand runs through the long hair, smoothing it. The other gently rests on a deep wound low on Maka's back, positioned so that Soul's arm will hide the bloodstain.

Together, they listen to the footsteps. They are close—agonizingly close. Soul feels Maka's racing heart throb against his chest, against his lips. The heartbeat matches his own, as does the breath that speeds up as the enemy appears at the mouth of the alley. The enemy sees them; he is coming. Soul presses his lips harder against Maka's. He focuses his eyes on her face. He feels rather than sees the enemy halt before them.

"You two," the enemy growls. "Have you seen anyone pass recently?"

Maka draws her lips slowly away from Soul's, but keeps her face close to his—so close that the man is unable to see the cut that slices across Soul's cheek. "We're busy," she says coldly. The words tickle Soul's lips. He has never heard Maka use this voice before—rough, sexy. It raises the hairs on the back of his neck and sends a shiver cascading down his spine. He closes the tiny distance between himself and Maka and captures her mouth with his own. He feels Maka's blood welling between his fingers and slides his other hand down her neck and over the curves of her back to cover it, on the pretense of squeezing her closer to himself.

"Disgusting morons," mutters the enemy. "Get a room, why don't you?" He walks on. Slowly, slowly, his footsteps die away.

Maka's grip on Soul loosens, and she begins to step back. "Wait," Soul murmurs. "He might come back to question us again." He draws Maka closer to him, just holding her. A long time passes. The footsteps never return. Together, Maka and Soul's heartbeats return to a more normal rhythm. Finally, Soul releases Maka. Pale and shaky, she leans against the alley wall and slides to a sitting position. Her vest and one of her gloves are covered with Soul's blood, where she used her body to shield his wounds from the enemy. Both of Soul's hands are drenched in Maka's blood.

"Well," Maka comments after awhile, putting her clean hand over her eyes. "I wasn't expecting my first kiss to be a terror-inspired act of desperation when I was in severe pain and waiting for death."

"Mmm," Soul says, walking past Maka to look and see if the street is clear. "I wasn't expecting my first kiss to be a full make-out session in some dark alley with a creep watching me. It was totally uncool."

Maka drops her hand and stares at Soul. "That was your first kiss?" she asks, stunned.

"Why do you sound so surprised?" Soul growls. "A cool guy like me doesn't kiss just anybody, anytime, anywhere."

"I—I'm sorry."

"Yeah, you owe me one, Maka," declares Soul. He crouches at the mouth of the alley, hands in his pockets, not looking at her. "I want the next one to be after a nice, candlelit dinner, with music playing in the background."

"With someone with a nice, big chest, no doubt," Maka murmurs just loudly enough for Soul to hear, voice growing quieter with weariness. "I'll see what I can arrange." Soul turns his head to look at her over his shoulder. Crimson eyes meet brilliant green ones. A slow, wide grin spreads across Soul's face. Maka stares at him, wondering if she's missed something.

"Come on, let's get you cleaned up," Soul says. "You're a mess." He stands. His shallow cuts are finally beginning to scab over. Maka scrambles to her feet, but when she tries to walk, she stumbles. Soul catches her easily and, before Maka can protest, sweeps his arm under Maka's knees and lifts her into the air. Too exhausted and hurt to complain, Maka lets her head fall onto Soul's chest. Just this once, she'll let herself rely on his strength without guilt. In moments, she is fast asleep. Soul looks down at her, smiles wryly, and shakes his head a little.

Footsteps.

Footsteps on cobblestone, echoing on stone walls that line narrow streets. Slow, steady footsteps; walking footsteps. One set of footsteps, growing softer. Fainter. Fading into the distance.


End file.
